


linger

by extremiss



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Established But Not Really, Fluff, I think?, Is It Angst?, M/M, but idk how 2 angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3268937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremiss/pseuds/extremiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mikoto doesn't think he's distant or cold or anything. totsuka just likes to invade mikoto's personal space, and mikoto—well, he pretends to mind it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	linger

**Author's Note:**

> i watched the first season of k project in one go. this is how i cope. well, kind of. also SORRY FOR THE LACK OF CAPITALIZATION!! omg it's a thing i tend to do when i word vomit. v sorry
> 
> anyway enjoy!!!

kusanagi would often joke that a certain underclassman was similar to a lost puppy in the way that he follows mikoto around all the time.  
  
mikoto thinks about it fleetingly, and decides he sees the resemblance after all.  
  
totsuka's eyes were big— the amber of his irises were always twinkling with trust and hope. mikoto would look into them sometimes, feel his juvenile delinquent facade crumble—if only a little bit. which is also why he's chosen to avoid eye contact altogether.  
  
totsuka echoes mikoto's heavy footsteps in light pitter patters, barks his same words in a less harsh, and naturally more melodious voice.   
  
most of all, he could sense that totsuka previously walked across the face of the world with a feeling of loneliness he pushes back behind smiling teeth. his existence held no true meaning—no purpose. he was lost, and now that he'd been found, he can't help but continue behind mikoto's trail.  
  
"king! wait up!"   
  
it had been after school, and mikoto miraculously decided against skipping. kusanagi had called in sick, but the credibility of the claim was dubious.   
  
sometimes—even if being around mikoto was life-threatening in itself—totsuka walked home with him.   
  
(but home wasn't really a place, per se. this was the case for either of them. the unspoken truth was that home to totsuka was wherever mikoto and the others were, and vice versa.)  
  
totsuka falls into step with him, a boyish grin spreading onto his features. mikoto turns away, like he always does, and totsuka breathes a small chuckle—like he always does.  
  
totsuka slips his fingers in between mikoto's.  
  
and well, sometimes, there was _that_ too.  
  
totsuka found this completely normal. he'd do it spontaneously at moments mikoto was most unaware. maybe he'd wanted to garner a reaction, which he should know he wouldn't be getting from someone of the likes of mikoto.  
  
totsuka squeezes, and then mikoto momentarily notices how small totsuka's hand was, how thin his fingers were, how soft, yet oddly cold to the touch. whereas mikoto's were large (for his age, anyway) and perpetually warm. his fingertips were calloused, his knuckles protruding and—at times—bruised.  
  
"why don't you ever leave me alone?" he somewhat sighs, but his tone doesn't seem like he's pissed or tired or that he actually means the words he says.  
  
it's possible that totsuka knows this or that he doesn't, but he smiles at him all the same. "this is normal between us, right? if you don't like it, let go."  
  
mikoto doesn't let go, though; just lets totsuka swing their arms a little as they get dragged around by the plethora of people in the cosmopolitan streets.  
  
"i knew it." totsuka says, smug.  
  
despite unknowingly squeezing totsuka's hand back, mikoto half-heartedly reasons, "it's easy to get lost here."

* * *

  
about eight years pass, and totsuka gets a concrete, tangible, yet admittedly sleazy version of a home—kusanagi's bar.

totsuka has grown, as mikoto and kusanagi have. except he grew into quite the pretty boy—unlike the aforementioned two—after he grew his hair out and pierced his left ear with silver. he picks up the most atypical—and not mention, expensive—hobbies, too.  
  
people put up with his quirks. or rather, he's loved for the charisma—the eccentricity paired with the light-heartedness.  
  
maybe there's a sense of sentimentalism in there too, because anyone's heart seemed to grow fond at how totsuka was bent on cataloging the present and reliving the past. he'd only use vintage things—outdated cameras that have been phased out for years, and old instruments with slightly rusted strings.  
  
mikoto or anyone else asks him why he does it, and on the days he doesn't reply " _because it's obviously more stylish this way_ ", he'll say that one day, the present will become the past, and he wants to hold all these memories in such a way that time can't erode them.  
  
mikoto thinks it's the cheesiest thing he's ever heard each time. kusanagi thinks it's kind of dumb. but at least misaki will be near tears when he says it.  
  
in retrospect, totsuka probably hasn't changed much. he could have already been like this ever since— always been the barest form of sincerity. if anyone's changed, it's mikoto. (there are a lot of factors to blame, but one can only guess one of the main reasons why.)  
  
it's that time of day where the sky is a perfect mixture of orange and blue. the bar is mostly unoccupied, save for kusanagi, who is off to run some kind of errand. given this, mikoto is alone.  
  
mikoto likes being alone, actually. he likes being left to the sound of his thoughts. (totsuka would tease him about this—call him a broody grump. good-naturedly, of course.)  
  
mikoto hears the creak of the door, and totsuka yawns into the silence.  
  
"ah, king, so you were here."  
  
he only hums in reply, and totsuka registers this as a cue to take his rightful spot beside mikoto on the couch. totsuka can only barely blink away the sleepiness in his eyes as he chatters away, and mikoto lets him run his mouth until he's run out of things to say. he likes totsuka's sleepy lilt. totsuka's voice will remain his favorite, no matter the situation.  
  
totsuka stretches, another endearing yawn blowing past his lips. he positions himself—albeit sluggishly—so that his head is rested gently atop mikoto's lap.  
  
"what are you doing?" asks mikoto, gruff. he does nothing to get totsuka off of him.  
  
totsuka ignores him. he comfortably curls up on the couch, hands clasped under his cheek. "sleeping." he says, with closed eyes. his light hair falls over his face as his head dips in his tiredness, and his breath begins to even out.  
  
the bastard really _did_ fall asleep on him.  
  
mikoto looks down, watching the way totsuka's chest rises and falls, and the way his lips part for quiet, stuttering snores. totsuka's eyelashes are pretty long for a guy—mikoto also notes, seeing them lay against the paleness of his cheek.   
  
mikoto lets a finger push totsuka's bangs away from his sleeping face and he tucks the soft hair behind totsuka's ear.  
  
and then the damnedest thing happens—  
  
mikoto's heart starts to beat faster—more than it ever has. but he peers at totsuka's peaceful form and he figures it might be best to ignore it.  
  
...he can't.  
  
he can't ignore it.  
  
he can't resist the urge to place a feather-like kiss on top of totsuka's forehead— so he does.   
  
it's the most he can do for now.

* * *

  
it's been almost a year or so.  
  
who is he kidding, though? he's probably been counting down to the days.  
  
he hasn't forgotten a thing about him—none of the good, nor the bad. behind closed eyelids, the images are burnt into him—the images he sees are of a bright smile, and a white shirt soaked with with red blood.  
  
behind closed eyelids, he sees phantoms of memories that he both had and never had—  
  
the brush of _their_ fingers, the trickle of _his_ eyelashes on his own skin, the sound of _his_ voice, the softness of _his_ lips against his own.  
  
(what do you call it when it's not you who abandons your home but when it's your home who abandons you?)  
  
mikoto unconsciously feels the silver band that was now on his ear. he looks at the pictures of smiling faces on the wall. he looks at the camera—the one left with no real owner—and wonders if just memories of the past or the present will ever be good enough.  
  
maybe the memories make it worse. because nowadays, he's plagued by them.  
  
mikoto realizes that even after all this time,  
  
he can't stop thinking about it.  
  
he can't stop thinking about _him_.  
  
the tears have long since dried, and he laughs bitterly—self-deprecatingly—to seemingly no one in particular,

"why don't you ever leave me alone?" 


End file.
